


Glitter and Gold

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry Sex, Angst, Blood and Violence, Dacryphilia, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Gun Violence, Hopeful Ending, Jaskier | Dandelion In A Dress, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mercenary Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Mercenary Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rough Sex, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Abuse, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: “They won’t kill me, right?”Jaskier sits up, slipping the knife back into his sleeve and scooping up his gun. He checks the silencer on it idly as he sighs, “No, they won’t kill you.”Brymald relaxes into the floor, his head falling back with a dull thunk. Geralt scowls and takes a step forward as Jaskier stands up. Jaskier levels the barrel of his gun with Brymald’s face.“I will.”Geralt and Jaskier have been together for two years when secrets come to light and trust is betrayed upon the revelation of Jaskier's double life. Geralt can't seem to escape him, however, until he learns that Jaskier isn't who Geralt thought he was.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 144
Collections: Best Geralt





	Glitter and Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Glitter and Gold (Digital Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577847) by [kickassfu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickassfu/pseuds/kickassfu). 



> If you wish to skip the explicit smut skip forward from _"Make me."_ to _"Sweet dreams."_ in Part Two. 
> 
> Thank you to [kickassfu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickassfu/pseuds/kickassfu) for being such an awesome person to work with, I'm so so grateful that they were my artist for this event and were super patient with me as I kept pushing things back due to the curveball life threw me out of nowhere :D

## 

##  Part One 

The golden wall hangings that are gleaming in the glittering light of the crystal chandelier are the first thing Geralt notices. They’re over the top and gaudy and everything he would expect from a duplicitous man who calls himself the EmperAur (a stupid fucking pun that makes Geralt inexplicably angry even as his boyfriend keels over laughing every time the damned mobster is on the news). The floor is paved in gilded tile, the windows edged with leaf, even the ceiling is painted in a garish golden gauche of the Sistine Chapel. 

He grits his teeth as he adjusts his cufflinks– silver, of course, with the head of a wolf– and glances around the room in search of platinum blonde hair piled high upon his partner’s head. He weaves easily through the crowd, the rich and powerful rubbing elbows and sipping champagne out of similarly golden flutes, too absorbed in their own tiny worlds to notice the predators in their midst. Geralt spies the emerald green gown of his partner on the opposite side of the enormous ballroom, Ciri’s heels making her stand several inches above even the tallest of men (and what is it about being rich and dangerous that makes people so short?)

She walks with the easy determination of someone with a destination in mind, her eyes focused ahead. Geralt follows her gaze to land upon the flashy gold suit of a rail-thin man with a rather impressive handlebar mustache and miniscule goatee– more of a soul patch, really– who is laughing and gesturing broadly with his glass of champagne to a small crowd. 

Geralt’s worked for him before– Edolm Brymald, the CEO of Gold and Glass and the head of the Kovir Family– he and Ciri are mercenaries after all with no alignment to any one family in particular, and the man is a bit eccentric and obsessive when it comes to gold. And if the suit and ballroom weren’t enough indication, he even has his consort dressed in something accented with gold. 

Geralt looks the escort up and down, for surely Brymald has hired somebody beautiful to accompany him and hang off his scrawny arm; long legs, high gold stiletto heels, a slit reaching nearly to the hip in the long black gown that’s accentuated with golden sequins. Narrow hips and a tight bodice over broad shoulders, slim fingers wrapped around a flute of champagne– fingers Geralt is intimately familiar with from nights spent with them exploring every inch of his body– and Geralt’s sinking suspicion is confirmed when he makes eye contact with strikingly blue eyes artfully rimmed in kohl and decorated with gold glitter.

Jaskier.

Geralt watches as Brymald pats Jaskier’s arm, pulling Jaskier’s attention away from Geralt, and then breaks away from the group with his eyes set on the restroom. Geralt glances over at Ciri who discreetly rubs her nose and points in that direction, confirming that she’ll follow the target. He lets out a small breath of relief and looks back over to Jaskier, who has a single eyebrow raised and an arm crossed over his chest. The sequins on the illusion neckline of his plunging gown glitter pleasingly and draw the eye to Jaskier’s strong collarbone. Geralt swallows thickly and ignores the slight tightening of his trousers as he makes his way to Jaskier’s side, taking a moment to appreciate the scant few centimeters his boyfriend towers over him in such high shoes.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Geralt murmurs, sipping his champagne as he looks around the room, “You look lovely.”

“Of course I do, Mr. Brymald is very generous when it comes to dressing his whores,” Jaskier winks cheekily as he swirls the bubbly in his own flute. His sleeves are loose and almost sheer, cinched at the wrists. “I told you I was working tonight, darling.”

“You did,” Geralt concedes, “But not where or for whom.”

“Client confidentiality, you know this.”

“Would you keep it confidential if we stepped outside?”

“And what would you pay me?” Jaskier smirks, his lips painted a fetching midnight blue that Geralt can imagine wrapped around his–

“A better seat than your _client_ can offer you.”

Jaskier stifles a laugh, biting his lip and glancing around, “I don’t suppose a few minutes could hurt.”

Geralt scowls playfully at him, “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of only making it a few minutes.”

His boyfriend waves his hand dismissively, “You’ll have all the time in the world to fuck me as you please in your own bed, Geralt. I’m on the job. What are you doing here, anyhow?”

“I had an invitation,” Geralt produces the golden invite from his jacket.

“Vesemir secure that for you, did he?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows curiously and Geralt nods as he tucks it back into his pocket. “How kind of him.”

Geralt hums and leans closer, “If we’re going to convene outside, _dearest,_ we ought to do so soon before your client returns, don’t you think?” Jaskier’s cheeks turn a faint pink as he clears his throat with a small nod. “Then meet me in the west courtyard in five minutes, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Jaskier watches him with sharp eyes as Geralt steps away.

“To freshen up. Prepare yourself for me while I’m gone, would you?” Geralt grins at Jaskier as his boyfriend flushes dark red and splutters before turning his back on Jaskier and walking towards the restrooms as well.

Once out of sight of the ballroom, Geralt pulls a knife from his suit jacket and pushes through the door to the bathroom. Ciri is already in there, her knee pressed into Brymald’s chest and her knife to his throat threateningly. She glances up when Geralt arrives and sits back slightly, her shin pressing into Brymald’s groin.

“Oh, good,” she says idly with a feral smile, “My partner’s here. He does all the dirty work, after all.”

Geralt places his foot on Brymald’s chest as Ciri stands up, the mobster’s ribcage groaning beneath his weight. Brymald wheezes, eyes bulging as he looks up at Geralt, “Why are you doing this to me? I’ve hired you before, Wolf, you were treated well!”

“It isn’t personal, Edolm,” Geralt shakes his head, bending down to rest his elbow on his knee, “you just weren’t the highest bidder this time. Sorry, pal.”

The subtle _ker-chick_ of a pistol cocking stops Geralt in his tracks, Ciri whipping around with her knife out as though that could stop the bullets promised to them. Geralt glares down at Brymald, the man still trapped beneath his shoe and red in the face as he gasps for breath. “Stay there. If you get up, I swear I’ll kill your pretty little escort before I find you and kill you, too.”

“Geralt,” Ciri hisses, not taking her eyes off of the threat.

“That would be a shame, Geralt,” the simpering voice of Jaskier sends chills down Geralt’s spine, “and here I thought you liked me.”

Geralt turns around slowly, his face impassive but his heart racing. Jaskier has a gun in hand– and looks like he knows how to use it, too– as he aims it at Ciri with a disappointed little frown on his dark lips. He’s still dressed in his cocktail gown, although his stilettos have been sacrificed for black boots and the hem of his skirt is pinned up.

“Jaskier, what are you–” Geralt’s voice is hoarse and Jaskier presses his lips together, looking remorseful.

“I need him alive, darling.”

“Is this about your job? I can supplement whatever he was going to pay you–”

Jaskier’s lips twitch, “It _is_ about my job, but not that one.” He reaches into the bodice of his dress and pulls out a slim leather piece that he flips open to reveal the golden emblem of Redania printed upon a red background, an identification card on the bottom half of the wallet. 

“You’re RSS,” Ciri states and Jaskier gives a single nod, keeping his eyes on Geralt.

“You can kill him after I’ve gotten the information I need from him,” Jaskier says plainly. It isn’t a request.

Geralt grits his teeth, anger flaring at the deception he’s bought into for two years– _two years_ and now isn’t that just a kick in the balls that Jaskier has been lying to him for _two fucking years–_ and steps away from Brymald. Maybe they can still make it work, Geralt has certainly understood the need for secrecy; Jaskier didn’t know he was a mercenary until a few months ago after all.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says quietly as he steps forward, his boots thumping on the floor with an air of surety, “If you could please lower your knife, Ciri?”

She grumbles but lowers the blade, sheathing it back in her sleeve and crossing her arms as Jaskier kneels down on top of Brymald’s chest. Geralt has to give it to the mobster, he did as he was told. Brymald is back to being white as a sheet again as he glances between Jaskier, Geralt and Ciri.

“So it was all a ruse?” Brymald’s voice shakes even as he lifts his chin and narrows his watery eyes, “You were never an escort? I hired a fucking spy?”

“Of sorts,” Jaskier murmurs and pulls a knife from his own sleeve, laying the gun down just out of reach of Brymald, “Now, I need you to tell me where you’ve hidden your accordion.”

“My what? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brymald protests even as he glances at the knife that Jaskier presses against his cheek, “Y-you can’t kill me! You said they could!”

“I did,” Jaskier nods, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you. Tell me where the accordion is.”

Geralt curls his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms as he watches and feels heat flaring in his gut. This shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, Jaskier _lied_ to him. Has he forgotten so soon? If not his mind, his body certainly has as he bites his tongue to use the pain as a distraction. 

Jaskier presses the small knife deeper into Brymald’s cheek, blood running in a thin rivulet down the edge of the blade and dripping onto the floor. “Okay! Okay,” Brymald gasps and Jaskier eases the pressure, “It’s not my fucking accordion anyway so what do I fucking care? But I want your word that they won’t kill me, that the RSS will protect me. I’ll be a fucking mole, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t let them kill me.”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest even as Jaskier holds up one finger towards him. “Where is the accordion?"

“East side of town, buried beneath the palm tree at 3rd and West.” Brymald glances at Geralt and Ciri, “They won’t kill me, right?”

Jaskier sits up, slipping the knife back into his sleeve and scooping up his gun. He checks the silencer on it idly as he sighs, “No, they won’t kill you.”

Brymald relaxes into the floor, his head falling back with a dull thunk. Geralt scowls and takes a step forward as Jaskier stands up. Jaskier levels the barrel of his gun with Brymald’s face.

“I will.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts even as Jaskier pulls the trigger. There’s the soft _fwip!_ of the bullet passing through the copper barrel before it rips through Brymald’s head. Blood quickly begins to puddle and stain the mobster’s blond hair.

“What the fuck was that about? Huh?” Geralt demands, grabbing Jaskier by the arm. Jaskier presses the tip of the gun to Geralt’s sternum, blue eyes narrowed. Geralt freezes.

“Let go of me, Geralt,” he commands quietly and Geralt slowly steps back, watching the gun as his heart breaks. 

“Jaskier…”

“I’ll leave first, the two of you leave separately. We don’t want anyone catching on to this.”

“Jaskier, you–”

Jaskier looks sorrowful for a fraction of a second before his face is cold and impassive, the gun still extended, “Don’t follow me.” He starts to walk to the door, holstering his weapon on his thigh, just above where the slit in his dress stops. 

The betrayal douses Geralt in ice, his chest collapsing into the infinite darkness of a black hole as he takes a staggering step towards Jaskier. 

Jaskier cocks the gun. Geralt’s breath catches.

“For what it’s worth,” Jaskier whispers, opening the door to the bathroom blindly, “I’m sorry.”

He disappears, taking what’s left of Geralt’s love with him.

##  Part Two 

Repeatedly seeing Jaskier is like shoving your foot into a pair of unbroken boots with three popped blisters on your heel. It sucks, it aches, and it’s painful.

He dreams of blue eyes and better days. A warm body leaned against his chest as they lounge in a field with the sun setting before them. A hand in his as they stroll through a park with popsicles in hand. A head on his shoulder as a shitty Hallmark movie plays on the tv, the blue light flickering over soft cheeks. In his dreams Geralt laughs and holds and kisses and loves.

He always wakes up more alone than before, with the ache of a thousand regrets in his chest.

Geralt thinks about these dreams a lot, and they’re what he’s thinking about as he nods his head in greeting at the bouncer and pushes through the gaudy pink and blue door in the middle of the day. Neon signs greet him, ones that match the sign that sits on the roof of the building, a cartoon leg ending in a high heel flashing blue and then purple as it high kicks. _XXX WOMEN AND MEN._

He follows the short hall into the club, the music pounding as a man performs on stage, two other performers on smaller pedestals. All of them are swinging around their poles, chests bare and hips barely covered by the meager scraps of fabric that are thongs. A cluster of middle aged women of varying shades of orange skin cheer and catterwaul at the male dancer as he hangs upside down on the pole with his toned back to the club.

Geralt looks away to scan the room, searching for the VIP lounge where his target will be. Ciri is, allegedly, under cover somewhere in the club to provide backup should he need it. They’ve been arguing as of late due to the repeated involvement of a certain ex-boyfriend in almost every single one of their ops. It’s been unnerving, how frequently Jaskier shows up. Geralt hasn’t spotted him yet, but he’s almost certain he will.

And speak of the devil: the male dancer spins around and Geralt immediately recognizes his face, even as decorated with glitter and makeup as it is. Jaskier’s eyes pop in the neon light of the club, the shadows of his torso throwing his toned musculature into sharp contrast in the same way traffic lights would illuminate Jaskier’s face when they would go for late night drives. Geralt can’t find it in himself to be pissed, not right this second, as he stands in the shadows and appreciates the show. The target isn’t going anywhere, Geralt has his eye on her at the lounge drinking vodka sodas and flirting with any servers who pass her by.

Jaskier moves on the pole like a fish in the sea: fluid and quick, familiar and confident. His long fingers grip it tightly each time he grabs it to swing around it, his strong thighs flexing as he holds himself up. Geralt’s mouth feels a little dry as he swallows thickly. He’s still angry with Jaskier– the bastard hasn’t even tried to apologize properly– so he drags his eyes away just in time to be crowded by a topless waitress in a glittering mini skirt.

“How can I help you, handsome?” She runs her fingers up his chest to rub his shoulder, “You new around here? Can’t say I’ve ever seen you before.”

He hums vaguely as he tries to get his sights on the target again, the group of orange women passing between him and the lounge. “I’m familiar with your establishment.”

“Oh, goodie, I don’t have to tell you how things work around here then,” her voice is bright and chipper and she pats his cheek, “Have a seat anywhere, sugar, I’ll be right with you, okay?”

Geralt nods with a murmured thank you as the waitress walks away and he starts to head towards the VIP lounge just in time to see the last of the target’s entourage disappearing through a side door. This must be Jaskier’s doing, they always are. He has a contract, Jaskier is there, and Jaskier steals the contract _and_ the intelligence the target would have offered to him.

With an angry growl, Geralt spins around, determined to march up to the stage and pull Jaskier right off of it. He takes one, two, three steps before he realizes:

Jaskier is gone.

“How does he keep getting the drop on us?” Ciri complains loudly a few weeks later as they walk home from the grocery store, “He knows our every move, Geralt!”

“Not every move,” Geralt murmurs, heart aching, “He doesn’t show up at every new job.”

“But a good portion of them he does,” she argues back. She shifts her groceries to one arm so she can stop Geralt with the other, turning him to face her as she speaks seriously. “Geralt, I know you love– _loved_ him. But it’s time to be real; there’s something more going on here.”

“I know,” he sighs and closes his eyes, suddenly just so tired, “I know, Ciri.”

“You gotta make sure this isn’t clouding your judgement.”

“It’s not.”

She looks at him for a few moments longer before nodding firmly, “Good. Because you’re up to bat tonight.”

“What?” Geralt opens his eyes in confusion.

“I looked at the assignment before I left. They want you to be the one to kill the target.”

Geralt hums with a frown. That’s odd.

* * *

The noise of the nightclub is loud and pounding, the bass rumbling the sidewalk Geralt stands on as he waits in line with Ciri beside him. Both of them are dressed to the nines– they have to be able to blend in at a location like this– with Geralt in a tight button down and jeans while Ciri is gussied up in a miniscule green dress that glimmers in the street lamps. 

They pay the entry fee upon reaching the front of the line and push open the red double doors, artificial smoke spilling out across the ground. The club is dark, lights flashing neon and lasers cutting through the air in synchronised patterns to the beat of the music. Bodies are gyrating, sweating on the dance floor in tiny skirts and low cut shirts, drinks are flowing in a land of white russians and bee’s knees. You’re either here to dance or here to fuck.

Unless you’re Geralt or Ciri.

Or Jaskier.

Geralt nods to Ciri, immediately breaking away from her to search the crowd. He knows Jaskier is going to be here, he can feel it in his gut. He doesn’t know the prerequisites of Jaskier’s presence in their jobs– he’s not there for all of them after all– but enough of them are hindered by the spy to be causing a problem. They’re still getting paid, sure, but something is afoot and Geralt is determined to figure out what.

It doesn’t take long to identify Jaskier, the man is dressed in a see-through blue top tucked into high-waisted black pants that are skin tight and his boots make him taller than he already is, an inch or so higher than even Geralt. His face is shining with sweat as he dances with someone Geralt doesn’t even bother glancing at.

Geralt grabs him by the arm, jostling the drink in his hand and making it slosh over the floor, Jaskier’s loud protest drowned out by the noise of the club as Geralt hauls him towards the hall where the bathrooms are. The light back here is low and flickering, early enough in the evening that there isn’t a line built up for the facilities yet of drunken partiers with bladders about to burst, and Geralt pushes Jaskier up against the wall with his hands fisted in Jaskier’s shirt.

“Oi! Hands off, this is an expensive blouse!” Jaskier complains, his words slurred and eyes blurry. Geralt squints at him and inhales deeply. Other than the faint scent of sweat and alcohol, Jaskier doesn’t reek nearly enough of booze to be losing his ability for speech.

“You’re not drunk, quit acting like it. You can’t fool me,” Geralt growls and Jaskier sighs as he drops the act and straightens up.

“I mean it about the shirt though, I paid 80 quid for this!”

“Oh shut the fuck– Wait, _£80?_ You paid 80 fucking pounds for that?”

“It’s a nice shirt!” Jaskier says defensively, giving up on trying to pry Geralt’s fingers out of the fabric and instead crossing his arms and pouting.

Geralt groans, rolling his eyes, “You’re a fucking idiot, Jaskier. You could probably get the same shirt for 30 at the charity shop.”

“But then someone _else_ has worn it!”

“You used to wear my clothing!”

“That was special because we were together, Geralt,” Jaskier argues and it makes something sharp carve through Geralt’s lungs.

Geralt sneers, “Guess it’s good we aren’t together anymore so I don’t impose upon you with my secondhand clothing.”

“Geralt, that’s not–”

“Whatever, I want you to tell me why you keep showing up at all of my jobs,” Geralt interrupts him and Jaskier blows a frustrated huff.

“We should really talk about–”

“Why you continually screw me over? Yeah, I agree.”

Jaskier scowls, “Fuck around and find out, dickhead.”

Geralt brings their faces close together, having to raise up on his toes the slightest bit as Jaskier’s boots increase his height, “Tell me why you’re doing this.”

_“Make me.”_

Jaskier’s breath is hot and sweet on Geralt’s face and his eyes flicker briefly to Geralt’s lips. That’s all it takes for the last of Geralt’s control to slip as he roughly tugs Jaskier forward to crush their lips together. Jaskier shudders and gives as good as he’s getting, tangling his fingers into Geralt’s hair and deepening the already filthy kiss. 

“I hate you,” Geralt growls.

“I know.”

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

Jaskier shivers, “I know.”

He pulls Jaskier towards the men’s bathroom, barely pulling away as the door swings wildly open. The bathroom is empty, thankfully, and he pushes Jaskier into it.

Geralt kicks the door shut behind them before slamming Jaskier up against it, their lips smashed together and breaths hot and heavy. Teeth nip and tongues fight as Jaskier reaches to wrap his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt grabs his wrists and pins them to the door, his fingers splayed against the metal. Jaskier shudders a moan and instead wraps one leg around Geralt’s hip.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Geralt snarls, pulling back and releasing one wrist to grab Jaskier’s jaw and push his head up and back. Jaskier gasps, his face flushed and his eyes hooded as he watches Geralt bite and lick his way down Jaskier’s neck, leaving dark red marks in his wake. In a moment of weakness, Geralt presses his nose against Jaskier’s skin and inhales deeply, heart aching for the familiar way Jaskier’s heart thrums in his throat and the musk that clings to his skin beneath a layer of floral cologne.

“You certainly know how to make a girl swoon, Geralt,” Jaskier retorts before gasping loudly as Geralt’s fingers dig into his cheek. Geralt flicks the lock on the bathroom door before manhandling Jaskier over to the bay of sinks. Their hands grab at each other, slipping beneath clothing to grip at hips and backs; fingernails raking through short brown hair, tugging at long white. The thumping bass of whatever dance song is playing in the club is muffled by the thick walls of the bathroom, the shitty fluorescent lighting casting them into pale shadows.

Geralt rips open Jaskier’s tight jeans, the top button popping off and skittering away across the tiled floor. Jaskier’s noise of protest is swallowed by a groan as Geralt pushes his hand under the fabric of Jaskier’s underwear to grope at his straining cock. “This doesn’t mean anything,” Geralt growls as Jaskier’s head falls forward and his long fingers grip Geralt’s biceps. 

Jaskier shakes his head as he moans loudly, “Not a th-thing.” Geralt’s fingers have bypassed Jaskier’s cock in favor of prodding at his hole. He’s already vaguely damp and loose, the way he is after he fingers himself before they go anywhere in case they decide to have a quick romp while out on the town. 

“Thought you were going to fuck someone tonight?” Geralt demands and Jaskier’s fingers scrabble at Geralt’s fly, “Have someone buried in your tight ass in a bathroom just like this?”

“Fuck, n-no. I mean yes, I– ngh, _fuck,_ Geralt.”

Geralt paws at Jaskier’s pockets until he finds the little packet of lube he suspected he’d find alongside a silver wrapped condom. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Jaskier. All you fucking do is _lie.”_

“That’s not true–”

“Isn’t it?” Geralt tears open the packet and dribbles some on his fingers, uncaring of the mess he’s about to make of Jaskier’s pants as his hand dives back under the tight waistband. “You lied to me about your job, you lied to me about who you are, do I even know you?”

Jaskier cries out as Geralt breaches him with one slick finger, easily pushing deep into his ass. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Geralt roughly fucks him with his fingers, adding a second probably far too soon. Jaskier doesn’t complain, just groaning at the burning stretch. “What I do know is that you’re a whore. Or at least half of one.”

A hurt expression flashes across Jaskier’s face as his fumbling fingers still. Geralt feels bad for half a second before kissing Jaskier firmly to wipe his frown away and distract him again. He knows Jaskier doesn’t like being called names during sex, it makes the man feel bad and takes him out of the mood as the high energy brings him close to tears.

Geralt angles his fingers as he tastes the salt of tears on Jaskier’s lips, Jaskier’s shaking breath catching on an aborted moan when Geralt brushes against his prostate. His back arches as his head falls back and his fingers grab at Geralt’s waistband to stop him from collapsing entirely. The tears that glitter on his cheeks are so pretty– little droplets sparkling on long dark lashes– that Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hair and hauls him forward to crush their lips together again. Jaskier makes a soft sound, almost one that sounds like protest, so Geralt starts to pull away.

Jaskier grabs at him, wrapping an arm around Geralt’s waist as he shimmies Geralt’s pants and underwear down with one hand just far enough for them to free his cock. “Just fuck me, Geralt,” he groans, getting his fingers around Geralt’s cock and stripping it lightly a few times with his dry palm.

“You’re not stretched enough yet,” Geralt frowns and Jaskier _snarls._ It’s a sound he’s never heard from Jaskier before, one of frustration and anger that shoots straight to his groin and makes his cock twitch.

“I want to feel it,” Jaskier slips off of the counter and turns around, bending over the edge and pushing his pants down to put his ass on display. Pert, round cheeks frame his red and fluttering hole and Geralt feels an inexplicable surge of anger at the sight of Jaskier’s unblemished skin. He hasn’t forgiven Jaskier for the things he did, what right does Jaskier have to be asking Geralt for anything at all?

Geralt grabs him by the hips and watches as Jaskier’s eyes widen in the mirror while he tears open the condom packet with his teeth, rolling it on swiftly. He then presses the head of his cock against Jaskier’s hole; just the barest amount of pressure on the tight ring of muscle makes Jaskier’s breath catch and his fingernails scrape over the granite of the counter.

“This condom is my size, Jaskier,” Geralt leans forward, draping himself over Jaskier’s back to growl into his ear, “You weren’t expecting to just fuck anyone, were you?”

“N-no,” Jaskier whimpers as Geralt rocks his hips, his cock sinking in just a smidgeon farther, stretching Jaskier impossibly slowly.

“What fucking right does a piece of shit like you have to anticipate fucking me?” 

Jaskier drops his forehead onto the counter as he lets out a soft sob, his shoulder blades protruding like wings. Geralt pushes his hips forward, groaning quietly against Jaskier’s neck as he fills Jaskier’s tight velvet heat. The head of his cock pops in and Jaskier gasps, grabbing at his own hair and mussing it further than Geralt’s fingers already had. With slow, steady strokes, Geralt falls into a rhythm that fucks his cock deeper into Jaskier with each thrust, Jaskier sobbing and moaning near-wordlessly into the echoes of the flesh that bounce around the bathroom. 

Geralt grips Jaskier’s hips tightly, fucking harder, faster, until Jaskier is a crying mess and his cock is dripping onto the tiles below them. His tears look so beautiful, salty tracks trailing down reddened cheeks, Geralt can’t look away as he ignores his own ghastly reflection in the mirror. Jaskier sobs out little pleas of _fuck, yes, gods, please, don’t stop_ that are barely louder than the noise they’re making in tandem. He adjusts his hold on Jaskier and suddenly he’s fucking deeper, each thrust burying him up to the base of his cock, and Jaskier is wailing with each hard pass over Jaskier’s prostate. 

The clutch of Jaskier’s hole intensifies as he tenses and spills onto the floor untouched, his own fingers leaving red marks upon his skin as he claws at his shoulders in a fruitless facsimile of being held. Geralt groans and manages a few more thrusts before pulling Jaskier flush against him and spending deep within him in an attempt to claim possession. 

It’s useless anyway. He never had Jaskier, will never have Jaskier.

As Geralt is catching his breath, his eyes closed, there’s the tiniest pinch on his hip. He flinches and opens his eyes to glare at the perpetrator. A single bead of blood has welled up from a tiny puncture wound. 

Jaskier has the miniscule needle in hand.

“Jaskier, what…” his vision blurs and darkens around the edges. He stumbles back, pulling free of his former lover and placing a hand to his head as he blinks hard, “What did you do to me?”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Jaskier does, at the very least, sound genuinely apologetic, “I have a job to do.”

Geralt sways as he sluggishly watches Jaskier button up his own pants before helping Geralt with his, tucking away Geralt’s softened cock with a tiny pat before smiling sadly up at Geralt. He leans forward and presses a feather light kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

“Sweet dreams.”

Geralt awakens slowly, his back and groin aching with the memory of more pleasant times than the heaviness of his limbs and the scent of rotting garbage in his nose. He groans as he forces his eyes to open, squinting against the soft light of the rising sun and the throbbing in his head. Geralt rubs his eyes as he sits up, peering into the purple shadows of the alley he finds himself in, his shoulder leaned against the dark, rancid green of a dumpster.

There’s a corpse in front of him, propped up against the wall. A knife is still in his target’s throat. Her blood is smeared across the wall, just barely legible in the low morning light: _“Sorry”._

Across the city, an envelope stamped with the seal of Redania is pressed into a pair of bloodied hands, photographs of Geralt and Ciri sealed within it.

##  Part Three 

It’s in the dead of night that there’s a soft knock on their front door. Geralt looks up with a suspicious frown, slipping a knife into his belt as he rises from his chair and walks over. Peering through the peephole, he doesn’t see anyone. Slowly, Geralt unlocks the door and opens it, scanning the hall through the cracked sliver.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s quiet voice comes from beside the frame, “I just wanted to talk–”

Geralt scowls and grabs Jaskier by the arm, hauling him into the apartment and locking the door behind him. Jaskier looks startled, his hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it anxiously and dark shadows bruise his fair skin. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak again, but his small relief quickly turns to alarm as Geralt pulls his fist back.

Geralt throws a punch and Jaskier dodges it, his hands raised passively in front of him, “Please, Geralt, you have to just hear me out!”

“I don’t have to do any fucking thing you say,” Geralt snarls and takes another swipe that Jaskier ducks under. Geralt pulls a knife from his belt and holds it perpendicular to his forearm as Jaskier gapes at him.

“A _knife?”_

“You pulled a gun on me!”

“It was already pulled! I just _turned_ it on you!”

Geralt makes a frustrated noise and jabs the knife towards Jaskier. Jaskier blocks the attack, knocking Geralt’s arm away. Geralt follows the momentum and turns, kicking Jaskier’s legs out from under him. Jaskier drops to the ground with a grunt.

“Geralt, stop!”

“I’m not going to let you do this, Jaskier,” Geralt drops on top of Jaskier, raising the knife. Jaskier twists his head out of the way as the tip drives down into the wood.

Jaskier is white as a sheet, eyeing his reflection in the flat of the blade, “Geralt, _please,_ let me explain–”

“Why should I?” Geralt demands. He pushes Jaskier’s cheek into the ground. “All you’re going to do is _lie.”_

“No, I swear, Geralt, I–” 

Geralt brings the knife down again and Jaskier curses. He grabs the shoulder of Geralt’s shirt and plants a foot against the ground. With the strength Geralt regularly forgets he has, Jaskier hauls them over. He pins Geralt’s wrists to the ground, eyes wild and chest heaving.

 _“Geralt,_ please, you need to–” Jaskier stops talking suddenly as he freezes.

“Don’t move, fucker,” Ciri’s dangerously low voice comes from behind him. “Hands up where I can see them.”

Jaskier slowly raises his hands. Geralt tightens his grip on the knife and strikes. Jaskier shouts in alarm, diving away. The gun in Ciri’s hands goes off, wood exploding next to Geralt’s head. He looks up at her incredulously.

“You could have killed me!”

“You weren’t supposed to try and _stab_ the person you’re interrogating, Geralt!” Ciri shouts back as she turns to find Jaskier. She’s tackled to the ground, the gun flying out of her hands.

“Get off of me!” She hollers as Jaskier rolls away, scrambling for the gun.

Geralt leaps on top of him. Jaskier cries out as Geralt slams his forehead against the ground. “Fuck, Geralt!”

Ciri scrabbles to her feet, darting for the pistol. Jaskier reaches out and grabs her ankle. Blood is running down his face from his broken nose, painting his teeth crimson. He snarls and yanks her to the ground as he forces a knee under himself. Jaskier shoves Geralt off of him as he pushes himself up and dives for the gun.

His long fingers wrap around it and he rolls onto his back with it aimed at them. Geralt and Ciri both freeze. Jaskier is a mess, a nasty black eye swelling rapidly and his nose gushing blood down his neck, staining his shirt blood red. He’s breathing hard through his mouth.

“I need to explain.” He says as he unloads the gun, tossing the clip far away from him. He gets to his feet, letting the empty gun drop from his hand to the floor as he leans against the couch with a hand to his head. “Fuck, Geralt, you don’t half-ass anything, do you? I thought you were going to kill me.”

His tone is light but there’s a devastation in his eyes and the shaking curve of his lips. Geralt hates that he feels guilt; he should be glad– _thrilled–_ that Jaskier is feeling even a fraction of what he did to Geralt, but instead he wants to go to Jaskier and apologize. To beg his forgiveness.

“I still could,” Geralt growls instead, hands balled into fists. A flash of hurt crosses Jaskier’s face.

Ciri crosses her arms, a bruise forming on her own forehead from hitting the ground, “Tell us what it is you came to so you can fucking leave.”

Jaskier swallows and grimaces from the taste of copper on his tongue as he nods, “I was given the order to kill you both.”

“What a surprise,” Geralt says flatly and Jaskier gives him an exasperated look.

 _“Let me finish._ I was given the order to kill you since my assignment was completed.”

Ciri narrows her eyes suspiciously, “What assignment?”

“I…” Jaskier rubs his cheek as he looks away, “I’ve been on assignment to spy on the both of you for three years now.”

Geralt feels like he’s been dunked in the ocean, his blood running cold as his jaw slackens. How can he still have a heart for Jaskier to injure? How is there anything left? Clearly there is because not only was Jaskier lying to him, their entire relationship was built on one. “Did you ever love me?” Geralt croaks, “Was it all a lie?”

“That’s not important right now,” Ciri glares at him, “Why are you here, Jaskier?”

Jaskier looks pained as he holds eye contact with Geralt, “To warn you. Get you to skip town, maybe? I don’t know, I just couldn’t do nothing.”

“And what about your direction to kill us?” Ciri asks. He shakes his head.

“Or that. Geralt… for the sake of complete transparency, I…” Jaskier takes a shuddering breath, “At first, it was just a means to an end. Us. If I wasn’t on the job then I probably would have still approached you anyway– I mean you’re un _fairly_ handsome– but this time… Well, it was for Redania. But then!” He hurries to add, “But then you were so sweet and kind and, well, _you_ that I…” 

Jaskier blinks back the tears welling up in his eyes as he breathes deeply, “My love for you was never a lie, Geralt.”

Geralt grits his teeth and looks away. He so badly wants to believe Jaskier, to take him into his arms and kiss the blood and tears away as they find solace in each other. Jaskier was once the only person Geralt could trust outside of Ciri, and his betrayal cut Geralt deep. 

“So, you didn’t tell me you were a spy because the person you were spying on was me?” Geralt asks quietly. Jaskier presses his lips together and nods.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “Please, Geralt, you can’t know the depth of my well of sorrow and regret, I wish I’d never agreed in the first place; but at the same time, had I not, I would never have met you.”

There’s a long silence before Jaskier reaches into his coat and pulls out an envelope stained with blood, “Here. If you still don’t believe me– and I don’t blame you if you don’t– here are my orders. It tells you exactly where the location of the RSS headquarters are and who my chain of command is. This is confidential information that I was supposed to burn after memorizing.”

Geralt looks up quickly, his eyes wide, “Jaskier, if you give that to us you’ll be committing–”

“Treason, I know,” Jaskier nods. He holds it out anyway.

Geralt glances at Ciri, silent communication passing between them before he reaches out and takes the envelope. The room is quiet enough to hear a feather brush the ground as they open the manila and remove the papers inside, their photos paperclipped to the sheaf. Geralt flips through the paperwork, skimming the content and recognizing how much sensitive information Jaskier has just handed to him. 

He looks up at Jaskier, who’s standing awkwardly as he stares at the floor and watches the blood drip from his nose to splash in a small puddle on the wood. Geralt clears his throat.

“Thank you,” his voice is hoarse anyway. “I… recognize the danger you’re putting yourself in, giving us this.”

“Plan K?” Ciri asks him and Geralt nods.

“I suppose I can’t know what Plan K is, huh?” Jaskier asks wryly.

Ciri starts to shake her head but Geralt interrupts her, “We go to Kaer Morhen. Lie low under Vesemir’s protection. You could… you could come with us.”

Jaskier and Ciri both gape at him, Ciri’s expression a mixture of disbelief and anger as Jaskier’s is just plain shock. 

“You’re not really–” Ciri starts. Geralt holds up his hand to silence her and her mouth clacks shut.

“He’s committing treason to warn us. Treason against the _RSS._ I think that’s justification enough to, at the very least, give him protection.” Geralt explains. Ciri groans but stomps off to grab her emergency bag. Geralt looks at Jaskier, at the blatant relief on Jaskier’s face and the slumping of his tired shoulders, and narrows his eyes.

“Don’t think this is forgiveness,” Geralt warns him. Jaskier nods, giving him a small teasing smile.

“I figure I’ll have to take you out to dinner first.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


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